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Hey, as long as we're all here, I kind of want to plug for my own adventures. If you're looking to fill a hole in your PbP experience, perhaps the one created by DM Frogfoot retiring, hit me up. I have a few spaces (maybe two or three) in my various PbPs that are potentially open. You're all good writers, so I'd like you if I'd like anyone. PM me if you're interested.
Oh no :( As sad as I am to see this campaign end, as I was very intrigued by its roots, I completely understand where you're coming from. I've skirted the edge of that frustration and burn-out myself in the past, and I hope you find a way to enjoy it again in a healthful and productive way, or that your absence from it makes you a happier and healthier person. Thank you for DMing this, short as it was. It was enjoyable. You have me as a player should you ever need one.
Arren follows after Harshuk, crouched low and thick boots digging into the snow as he runs. He keeps his nose articulating and his eyes on the trail, to help Harshuk not lose it.
I feel kinda bad actually. A lot of recent developments have been a whole lot of just me. Them Coldborn hangin' on my every word and all, you know. Please let me know if I'm doing too much (or too little, I suppose).
Kneeling close to the ground, his nose nearly in the loam, Arren looks up with surprise when he catches the new scent and a track. He looks to Harshuk, who's also picked up on the same trail. "What do you think, Harshuk?" He wiggles his nose and articulates his fingers. "Seems an awful lot like one of our own burned this place down and walked away from it."
Arren, still in bear form, sniffs around the premises for signs of activity, but the strong stench of burned wood stings his nose. Instead, he settles for poking around the outside of the house with Harshuk, looking for tracks.
Arren nods at the guards' work, murmuring, "Good work." as they slay all but one of the trolls. "This is satisfactory to your needs, Bloodmarked?" he asks Darath. "As long as she can keep an eye on it." remarks Arren, sparing Lysira, Kenna, and the riekling a glance. "Do your best to extract any other useful information from it, and do let us know if it escapes, will you?"
Arren just glowers at Moriarti for a few moments before he turns to the trolls, just waiting for their execution.
"You stand within my home, though. Insulting the power of my tribe whilst surrounded by it seems unwise, is all. I was merely warning you." Arren crosses his arms and puffs up his chest.
"Leoric, kill all but one of the trolls. Is this amenable for your purposes, Bloodmarked?" he says, turning to Darath. And then he turns to Moriarti. "Rat-man, do not disrespect the coldborn in my hearing again."
"Abrasax is unknown to us, witchwolf." replies the coldborn, to Kenna. "Although if it is, as you indicating Mori, claim, perhaps is isn't prudent for you to be carrying an intelligent magical item." he says, gesturing at the crystal rod. When it de-activates and the trolls lurch forward, he merely crosses his arms, nonplussed and unsurprised. "My point exactly. When can we kill these beasts?"
Arren doesn't look at Harshuk as the bard murmurs in his ear, and continues to pay half-attention to Moriarti's interrogation of the riekling. As incomprehensible as it all was, it was still very interesting to watch. He murmurs back to Harshuk, "I agree. This stinks of treachery, a smell I'm not particularly fond of."
"Hrm." grumbles Arren, grumpily. "An enchanter amongst the rieklings would only make invading them more interesting. We might find it a bit difficult to talk to 'em, though. Unless we've got powerful divinatory magic or a natural linguist among us, we'll be forced into a third-party language. Anyone speak Giant?"
Arren strokes his bearish chin thoughtfully. He's been given a great responsibility, but it isn't the first one that he's had. "Well." he begins. "These don't appear to be too far away from the troll norm, and I highly doubt that the rieklings are sophisticated enough to have created this, he indicates the rod in Mori's hand, ..item." "I believe we should locate the tribe that these rieklings are from, capture a few, and...question...them about who gave them such a lordly gift." He looks inside the cage, to the self-binding trolls, "As for these beasts, we have two options. I believe that a few experiments shold be made, but only one is of critical importance. Determining whether aggression breaks the enchantment should be done in a more prepared environment. If it doesn't, I believe we should kill the beasts. If it does, we ought to use them."
Arren nods to his chieftain. "Yes, my Lord. It shall be done." On the way to the prison-pit, where the trolls will be caged, Arren ponders the trolls. They were unlike any trolls he'd ever seen before. Why? Where did they come from?
Arren, I have no problems with allowing you to apply the spellcasting levels to your druid spells. Excellent, thank you :D
GM Frogfoot: I have a kind of needy homebrew-request for you regarding Arren's progression.
So, when I made Arren, I was just planning to have him go straight druid, with MAYBE a fighter dip after 5th, but then I thought of a very flavorful idea while in class today. Dipping one level into witch (winter witch) after 5th and going into the Winter Witch prestige class. I can totally meet the prereqs for the class at druid 5/witch 1, with some skill point expenditure, but I checked, and the winter witch prestige class has a very specific +spells/day paragraph. At the indicated levels, a winter witch gains new spells per day and patron spells as if she had also gained a level in the witch class. She does not, however, gain other benefits a character of that class would have gained except for additional spells per day and an increased effective level of spellcasting. Bolding mine. Most of the other spellcasting PrCs that I've seen allow you to CHOOSE which (witch :D) class you'd like to apply the +spellcasting level to, and I was wondering if you would allow me to do that with the winter witch class (Applying the bonus caster level to my druid spellcasting). No problem if not, I'm still all ice-centric without it.
Gruffly, Arren waves at Temmeruk as he and the guards approach, but then moves up beside Lysira and the stunned riekling she has. Looking to her, through big bear-mouth, he asks, "Do you think we could figure out how they found those? Doubtful that such a little, pathetic creature make it himself, right?"
Arren, crouching and spear ready, was just about ready to attack the prone troll when the dynamic of the whole combat shifted (pun intended). He looks around, concerned for his compatriots and fellow skinwalkers, and begins to tour the battlefield, inspecting people to see if they're injured or if there's anything he can do for them.
"The little green thing!" Arren shouts as his keep eyes pick up on a new development. "It's controlling the troll! Take the glowing rods from them or kill them!"
I have this feeling that we're kind of in massive amounts of danger right now.
"Ouch." Arren grits his teeth as the troll's claws rake along his right leg, drawing blood and sending jolts of pain through his body. He takes a step back, away from the troll and out of arm's reach and raises the bloodied arm. He grimaces in pain from using damaged muscles, but he calls upon the fury of the winter storm and a slow, painless death as one lies in the snow, forgetting how to stay awake.
Arren growls, his teeth baring and his cheeks raising in an expression of frustration and anger. "Stop using your claws, you fool!" he shouts, at Saipres, "Savagery won't win you this one!"
Arren sees his fellow tribesmen in deep trouble. Pride injured, he knows he still must do what he can for his friends and allies. He calls upon his lord, Erastil, patron of a stable homestead, to protect his allies from the flames. A flash of divine power, a spark of green between his fingertips, and the air nearby the troll-handlers condenses more quickly than would naturally be possible. "Air of the tundra swallow you!" he shouts as the fog billows out to obscure the handlers.
My initiative is so bad that I get my own marker! Wow :D
Don't worry about it, just nail those Fortitude saves :D
That's the best kind of sexy.
Arren silently berates himself for not preparing any fire magic that day and steels himself for a rough battle.
May I make some suggestions? Goblin, Gnoll, Giant, Sylvan, Aklo, Draconic?
Arren shifts again, only slowing momentarily to do so, and his ursine features are once again quite visible.
He clearly hears the scream, sees the other Representatives, and lopes after them as they move towards the sound. His back is hunched and his face is close to the ground, sniffing. His shield and spear are back on his person and in his hands, and he moves as quickly as he can to keep up with the other skinwalkers.
Arren drinks deeply of the sweetwater, a few rivulets of it running down his beard as he does so, before responding. Taking a big gasp of air, he thanks Shiro, hands back the mug, and says, "The other representatives? Not for the most part, although one's of 'em's some a~@*%!! Fanglord called Saipres." Seeing Shiro's shocked expression at his profanity, Arren lets out a single laugh before he clarifies. "He's a friend of mine. Strong warrior, but prideful and naive." He begins to walk, motioning to Shiro to follow him, a "walk-and-talk" kind of deal. "Perhaps it'd be a good idea to see what they're doing. Harshuk! Get your face out of that Bloodmarked swill and come with me!"
Arren's jaw is whipped to the side with a swift snap as Lysira's foot collides with his face, and the coldborn drops to a knee and a hand. He rubs his jaw for a moment. 'Foolish old man. This is what you get for challenging a younger, fitter opponent. The pride of the tribe was at stake and what did you do? Fail.' Struggling to his feet, his fur slowly ripples and withdraws itself into his skin, along with his claws and his elongated snout. He extends his hand. "A good bout. I apologize for resorting to more deadly blows, my temper got the better of me. Do you require magical healing?"
"I will defeat you!" Arren roars as he responds with a pair of slashes.
His clumsy efforts, combined with his brazen confidence, only serve to push the crowd further against him.
Frustration! Arren's growl is continuous now, and he lashes out savagely with his claws.
Unfortunately, the agile woman was more than able to dodge Arren's clumsy blows and poor rolls.
My mistake, I knew that, it just slipped my mind. Edited.
"No, but I might strike one of yours!" roars Arren as he casts his shield off, drops his spear, and lashes out with a clawed fist.
So, to Lysira and Frogfoot, I think I'm just gonna target your first attack every round with my dueling dodge. My attack bonus isn't high enough to use parry well and we haven't gotten to the point where I need to use resolve, so we'll just go with that. My AC is 22 against your first attack each round and 16 against your second.
Arren snarls. She does NOT talk about...about women that way to him! He savagely swings his spear at her, looking to jar the breath out of her mocking lungs and the smile off of her self-entitled face.
I was suggesting it for the spirit of the not-hurting-each-other variety. I will, however, gladly add the +4 to hit that will come from adopting more aggressive tactics if that's what I should do :D
A few seconds too late for it to be a good comeback, Arren roars at Lysira as he swings at her again. "You LOOK like you don't ever HAVE morning porridge!"
Arren's clumsy efforts at hitting the nimble young witchwolf are painfully obvious to the spectators as not boding so well for his chances in this battle. Speed may not best power on its own, but Lysira had both, and it concerned the older coldborn.
Arren growls and pulls his spear off his back. The weapon slides out of its sheath easily and the coldborn pivots, spinning to strike the woman with the flat of his spear's blade or the wood of the shaft.
Unfortunately, she saw the move coming and danced out of the way, and Arren missed by a long shot. Following his miss, Arren crouches backwards, taking cover behind his shield in anticipation of the woman's next flurry.
Arren is indeed wearing his shield :D
"It's not a question of bark." says Arren, his deep voice slowly growing deeper and developing into a rumble. He takes a step back from Lysira as she pummels him with her fists, grunting just a bit as he moves away from her. His skin ripples and then a coat of thick black fur springs quickly along its surface. His face and hands grow darker and sharp, thick claws extend from the ends of his fingers as they retreat somewhat into his hands, gaining a pawlike shape. "It's a matter of..." He lets out a savage roar, opening his mouth and baring his teeth at the witchwolf, extending his body forwards and his hands back. "...roar."
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